


Xenia

by LordGrimwing



Series: Neos Mnestis [2]
Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 10:55:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7681642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordGrimwing/pseuds/LordGrimwing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The femme team are on their way home and Cybertron is returning to his former glory. But things won't stay simple for long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Xenia

**Author's Note:**

> Just so there's no confusion, Elita is addressed as "One" just as Optimus is called "Prime."

She was tall, for a femme, broad too; it was obvious that the pink Cybertronian wasn’t made for a time of peace: her helm protected most of her head and was equipped with a retractable mask that could cover nearly all of her faceplate, ridges were strategically placed on her armor to deflect sword strikes, the gaps in her armor--which permitted flexibility--were filled with a rubbery mesh that lessened the shock from an energon spear. Her back was straight, servos clasped behind her, settled just below her faction’s insignia. Blue optics glowed over a slight frown as the femme watcher her team and the hitch-hikers from Kaon Three from the terminals in the bridge of her ship Caleuche. 

“One.” The clipped voice of her second rang out from the entrance to the bridge. Elita One turn to face her purple and orange second. Lancer stood at attention, joints locked as she awaited the One’s verbal acknowledgement.

“At ease Lancer.” Both the femmes assumed a more relaxed position, comfortable in each other’s presence.

Lancer strode to Elita One’s side, angular pleated metallic skirt clinking softly. “Observing the crew One?” Her pointed helm tilted toward the terminal, voice still slightly formal.

“Care to join?” Elita’s voice was deep for a femme and soothingly calm. 

Lancer moved to her side. “Girls are getting restless.” 

On the screen before them, a sea foam green femme sat on on the edge of a work bench in the small armory, servos twitching over the barrel of her sniper rifle, yanking a worn-out chamois over her weapon of choice. 

“We’re almost home.” The video feed switched to the ship’s small haloroom. Two femmes dueled across a crumbling plateau, swords flashing in the fire surrounding them. The shorter of the two, a blue flier called Stormbreaker, made a faint for the other’s right shoulder. As her opponent, Endgame, moved to block the blow, Stormbreaker flared her wings out, knocking Endgame dangerously close to the plateau’s edge.

The black and silver femme pinwheeled her arms wildly for a moment, before the ground the pair had dueled across suddenly vanished, revealing the ship’s small holoroom. Endgame grinned down at Stormbreaker, saying something to the younger Autobot. The cameras didn’t have audio.

The video feed switched again.

The unit’s fighter pilot, Flashpoint, was sitting in the sparsely furnished rec. room with two of the passengers from Kaon Three, her micron K.I.T. curled up on her lap. Her red and orange plating shone dimly in the yellow lighting, Flashpoint was always careful to look her best around other Autobots. When the femme joined her team, Elita had worried about this somewhat--it wouldn’t do to have someone like Tracks in Spec. Forces--but Flashpoint soon proved that her care for cleanliness would not be a problem on a mission.

The One turned her attention on the two other Autobots in the room. She’d meet Firestar almost the instant her crew disembarked from Caleuche. The delicate femme was hungry for news (from what Elita saw of Kaon Three, there weren’t many connections to the outside universe) and on hearing that the war was over and Cybertron had been restored to life, she practically begged passage back to their home planet for herself and her creation Infernal. The young mech looked little like his carrier. Where Firestar was small and slender, he stood tall and broad, and if it hadn’t been for how polite and cultured he was, Elita One would have sworn that he was from Petrolhex, also if the city hadn’t been destroyed long before he was sparked. 

“The mechling looks very familiar.” Lancer broke the amicable silence, seeing who her commander was watching.

“How so?” The pink femme turned toward her longtime friend.

“There vas leftenant’s bodyguard I met vonce, he luked similar.” The Kaonite was not as worried about her accent when conversing with Elita. 

“Perhaps there is some relation.” The taller femme turned back to the screen as the input once again switched. 

A blur of pink filled the screen as someone dashed down the hall. Elita sighed, activating her comm. “Crystalline.” She called. “What are you doing right now?”

A surprised and slightly guilty voice answered. “Nothing-nothing-I’m-just-uh-heading-to-the-holoroom-to-train-a-bit-yep-just-to-do-some-training-I-am-certainly-not-racing-in-the-halls-because-you-told-me-not-too. Why-do-you-ask?” Crystalline was never able to lie to her commander very well.

“Good. Because we all don’t need a repeat of what happened last time.”

“Of-course-not-One-I’ll-never-do-that-again.” That had happened while they were stopped at an organic waystation and Crystalline accidentally slipped on some disgusting organic goo and crashed through a decorative window and into some religious ceremony. The group of Autobots were lucky to have avoided a full out fight.

“Alright then.” Elita ended the comm. 

“I vonder vhat vill become of that femme vhen we get back to Cybertron.” Lancer shook her helm. The image changed.

A small white and black femme sat cross legged in the foremost part of Caleuche, burning blue optics fixed at some distant point on the digital panel that showed the space before them passing by. Her shoulders were narrow and she sported little armor on her delicate frame; since she focused mainly on stealth and agility, the pearly white Autobot resisted using any armoring mods other than the few she’d been given upon starting her training to become a kunoichi. 

Elita One recalled the gentle femme being introduced to her as WhiteSnow by Lieutenant RedAlert--though she insisted on simply being called Snow. The tiny Iconolee always seemed so out of place on a mission--even to this moment--and the One often had to push down the urge to tell her that civilians weren’t capable of completing Spec. Forces assignments. As incapable as Snow may have appeared, no femme on the team wanted to be on the receiving end of her very unique skills.

Not far from Snow, their knees almost touching, sat Domina. The sky blue femme had her back to the camera, once she’d learned where most of them were, it became a rare thing to see the not-quite-member-of-the-team anywhere but in the camera’s blind spot, unless she was with another capable warrior like Snow. Elita sometimes considered asking Domina--who joined her team sometime after finishing their last mission from the Prime but before they learned of the abandonment of their home world--about her behavior, but there are somethings that no one should ever ask of a being who’d been through what Domina had. Insteed, she kept her vocalizers muted and tried not to shiver every time she pasted Domina or her ‘tamed’ cyberwolf in the halls. Elita may have become a One, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be unnerved by the dark sense of terrible wrongness in the pairs EM fields. 

The camera flicked back to showing an empty holoroom. 

Elita One shook her helm: what was going to become of her little team of warriors when they got back to Cybertron? Was it to be expected that everyone was just going to return to the lives of civilians? Sure, nearly every member of her team held a ‘civilian’ function before the war, but that didn’t mean they could all return to it. The pink femme had worried so long about keeping her team alive long enough to see the end of the war, she had just recently started to worry about what would happen after. To her, it seems an even greater worry.

“Elita One, jour tiered. Go recharge. I vill keep vatch.” Lancer laid her slightly clawed digits on her leader’s strong shoulder.

“Alright my old friend.” Elita agreed. “I just need to check a few things on my way.”

“Jou mean jou must check on two femmes.” The Kaonite rolled her red optics.

“Yes, I suppose so.” The head of Special Forces strode from the room, leaving her second to argue pointlessly with the ship’s AI about whether or not accents really did make it harder for the not quite living program to execute vocal commands. The debates were circular and often went on for hours at a time.

Elita hadn’t seen two of her crew yet, meaning they were either in their quarters, or hiding. It would be easiest to find her femmes’ doctor first. Since Causeway wasn’t in the repair bay, she’d more than likely be in her quarters with the three other Kaon Three refugees they’d picked up. The One really was bothered that only five of the bots there had been willing to return to their home planet.

She stopped in front of the red and silver medic’s door, knocking twice (the ship’s AI, Digitron, had taken the door chimes off line a long time ago to save on power), and waited hardly at all before the door swished open.

“Commander.” Causeway dipped her helm in respect. “To what do we owe this visit?”

“Just checking that all is in order.” Elita One nodded to the three slender bots sitting on the berth facing the door. “You all are well?” She inquired as Causeway stepped aside, letting her into the cramped room. It was only really made for two bots to use, but since all the other quarters were taken, the team’s doctor and counselor had willingly offered to share her recharge room. Her quarters should have felt more cramped, with double its intended capacity, but two of the hitch-hikers from Kaon Three were bonded and very good at taking up little room on a berth while the other was a monoformer with very little armor.

“As well as can be hoped for One.” The yellow and purple monoformer, Canary, replied in a high, chipper key. The young bar keeper’s constant happiness was very genuine, unlike her two employes. “We are all very ready to be back home on Cybertron.” Her smile lifted, her bonded assistants’ smiles looked frozened onto their painted face plates.

“As are we all.” Elita One nodded, taking her leave of the three femmes and lone mech. 

“Are you still alright with having them all share your room Causeway?” She inquired of the doctor when the door closed behind them.

The red and silver femme shook her helm. “They’re really not as bad when you get to know them One. Molotov and Margareta have just been through a lot. It will be okay.” 

“Alright then.” With that Elita One continued her stroll through Caleuche hoping to find the last member of her team, Scarlet.

Back up in the control deck, Lancer brought her argument with Digitron to an abrupt stop. On one of the security feeds, her least favorite member of Elita’s team stepped out from the camera's blind in the rec. room. Scarlet smiled up at where she knew the other Kaonite was watching, red lips pulling back to reveal gleaming denta. The large transport alt knew how to use her size well. Reaching up, she tapped a strong digit against the crystal covering the camera lense. 

Lancer glared back at the image of who she considered to be one of the Autobots’ greatest disgraces, a walking failure, and an ex-Decepticon that Elita One put way too much trust in. The purple and orange second in command was to keep a keen optic on that one; if there was any hint of a double crossing by the traitor--she was sure there would be--she wouldn’t hesitate to remove her from the team. The Kaonite way.

 

Jazz slammed against the wall, servos blindly scrabbling for the button to give him access to a door that wasn’t there. Optics blazing white, he scratched at the wall, searching for a door seem that wasn’t there. The shiny doctor, with his poking digits, had built him a new optical visor, but he’d lost it somehow in his panic to find Prowl. Jazz’s spark burned, it ached behind his chest armor. Giving up on searching for a door, the Polyhexalon turned his digits on himself, trying to pry open his own chassis. The large mech that told good stories had taken away his internal controls along time ago, and removed most of the claws from his digits. The red doctor hadn’t given either of them back to him.

Jazz fell to the ground, over heating and thrashing, striving to somehow smash open the sliding parts of his chassis in order to get at his spark. He couldn’t vent. He was all alone, and he was going to die.

Cold servos suddenly landed on his shoulders, stilling his convulsive jerks. Familiar digits slid down his front, tracing around fresh gouges he hadn’t known he was making, while a trusted voice hummed near an audio. 

“Relaxe my Jazzy,” Prowl purred, or as close to a purr as he could get. “Everything’s okay, you’re okay. I’m right here with you.”

Jazz whimpered, clutching at the lieutenant’s arms. “Prowlah,” he wined. “Prowlah, Ih hurt. Ih can’ makeh it stop. Makeh it stop Prowlah, makeh it stop.” Optical fluid began leaking from his sightless optics as his over clocking systems slowly came down from their terrified high.

Jazz sagged in his friend’s arms, slipping into a restless recharge. 

“I wish I could Jazz, I wish I could.” 

A few levels down from where Prowl held Jazz, Drift opened the door to the mostly finished hab. rooms he shared with Perceptor. The ex-Decepticon looked small in the doorway without his heavy armor suit on. After having to remove the Apex Armor-like Decepticon creation to repair Drift after Shockwave’s lab collapsed, Knockout insisted that he not put the upgrade back on--unless he had to fight--as it was placing a large amount of stress on his abdominal struts. He didn’t like having to look up at others, but he’d learned not to argue with the surgeon: you couldn’t have been in the faction for as long as he had and ever really be a former Decepticon. Drift should know. 

The blueish lighting shone dully off his mainly white plating, refracting the glow up on to a pale faceplate. Drift walked past the deceptively bright light in the entryway, red optics--Knockout bluntly refused to let him put the blue optic covers back on--searching through the darkness beyond for the Kalisian he shared space with. Perceptor should be somewhere in here, he was off shift and it wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go--Iacon didn’t have any bars rebuilt yet.

“Where are you Perceptor?” He called.

“On my berth, not that it’s any of your business.” Came the red mech’s angry response, his default voice. 

Drift stepped into the room Perceptor’s words came from. “What are you doing?” He asked, looked down at the larger mech.

“Absolutely nothing.” The other Wrecker grawled. He really was doing nothing, just lying on his berth staring fixedly up at the gray ceiling. His red armor was scuffed and dented, and a thin line of dried energon stained his face plate from under a crack in his targeting optic.

“You were fighting.” It wasn’t a question and Drift wasn’t surprised when a faint grin twisted at the corners of Perceptor’s mouth. “You know I’m going to report this. Again.”

“Don’t know why you even bother.” The larger Wrecker sat up, scowling at the white and red mech before him. “You’re the only one who cares if a Vehicon ends up in a morgue or a med-bay. It’s not like one would be missed.” He stood up. Without his battle armor, Drift was now head and shoulders shorted than the Kalisian. “Besides,” he leaned down, “I only knocked it around a little.” With that, he shoved past his room mate and left their quarters, grabbing his rifle on the way out.

Drift growled to himself and slowly curled his servos into fists. He could and would report the fighting, but Perceptor was right: nothing was ever really done about it. Lieutenant Arcee had tried reprimanding the violence prone mech once--she wasn’t actually in charge of the Wreckers but Drift had hoped that her station in the army would have made up for that. Perceptor had not taken kindly to a femme telling him what was right or wrong. Drift knew the way to get real results would be by going directly to the leader of the Wreckers, and acting Autobot commander, Ultra Magnus. However, his own experiences with reporting problems to other Wrecker commanders made him leery of actually doing so again. 

Making sure he had his ID chips with him, Drift departed his quarters and headed back toward the Autobot base to fill out the report form. Iacon had come a long way since he had stepped out of the small shuttle he’d escaped the destruction of Moonbase 3 in. More buildings were standing and in better repair, the sky was no longer the sickly orange of a poisoned world barely clinging to life, and small growths of delicate elements were starting to form again. It would have been nice if seeing the city slowly returning to it’s former beauty--a sight Drift had only ever heard about--helped boost the ex-con’s mood, but it really didn’t. He couldn’t help thinking how easy it would be for things to return to the way they’d been before the two factions formed in rebellion of the way Cybertron was run. 

It didn’t take him long to reach the head quarters and then make his way to the Records and Forms office. Sliding open the door, Drift was met by the sight of Blurr idly tapping a stylus on a plank data pad at an alarming, but typical, speed. Because he was built almost solely for speed, Blurr was hardly able to help with reconstruction (which is what most of the returning Autobots were assigned to do, regardless of their actual posts in the army) and thus was assigned to working in the RF office. The blue Velocitronian perked up when he realized that it was Drift who had intered.

“How’re-you-doin’-Drift?” He buzzed, setting the stylus aside and sitting up.

“Fine.” He was usually more talkative with the hyperactive scout. “I need to file a complaint.”

Blurr shook his angular helm, reaching for the appropriate datapad. “Seriously? What’s-his-problem-anyway? You’re-in-here-like-every-ten-cycles-and-he’s-always-going-off-at-anything-Decepticon. The-fact-that-you-call-each-other-friend-is-way-beyond-me-I-meen-you-were-a-’con-and-everything-which-I’m-not-saying-to-criticize-you-are-anything-like-that-I-just-don’t-get-it. How-can-you-even-bear-being-quartered-with-him?”

Because I swore to his brother I’d look after him and try to keep him from totally destroying himself. Drift was so tempted to say that, because right now, he was really regretting agreeing to Magnificus’ request after the two of them joined the Autobots. Insteed, he went with, “I don’t know sometimes,” and tooked the offered datapad to fill out.

Just outside the RF office, a red and black mech dashed through the halls, laughing hysterically as he was pursued by his golden brother.

“Get back herre jou little glitch!” Sunstreaker yelled at Sideswipes back, his helm and shoulders covered in a pink tar-like substance.

“Jou should have seen jou faceplate, brrotherr! Et vas volderrful! Ee rrecorrded et und everrything!” The Kaonnite was referring to the look of absolute horror that had filled the golden mech’s expression when he’d felt the pink gue sliding down his plating. 

“Ee extinguish jou, Sidesvipe!” Sunstreaker’s angry howl caused his twin to look back at him. With wide optics the prankster put on a sudden burst of speed and barely avoided having his shoulder armor snagged by a golden set of clawed digits. 

What one should know about Autobot buildings, is that there aren’t many corners to have to run around, halls were straight and long. This was really great for security measures, a single camera could cover a large area, but not so great if one was trying to avoid being caught by a very angry twin. Although Sideswipe was the more agile of the two, Sunstreaker’s gilded frame didn’t allow for nearly as much finesse, but his brother and fellow gladiator could always beat him in a flat-out run. 

“Scrrap, scrrap, scrrap.” Sideswipe hissed as he skidded around a corner, regaining some of his lead as Sunstreaker pounded after him, slowing some so as to avoid scraping against a wall as he turned. Ahead of them were the lifts--which only worked about four out of five times--and the stairs, just after those two exit points was a part of the floor that was still being finished. With a groan, Sideswipe picked the stairs. At least he didn’t have to worry about staying in shape. His vents were working hard by the time he ran out on the next floor up.

Sunstreaker bared his jagged denta and he clanged off the stair case. It was only a matter of time before he caught up with his brother and could make him pay for the pink muck that was solidifying to his armor.

Command meetings were one of the host of things that Sandstorm really disliked about, well, commanding. The fact that he could do little at this meeting other than listen just rubbed in the point that, no, he really didn’t have anyone left to command. There were no more Paradonians for him to stand before, so Ultra Magnus insisting to honor his useless title, Military Dictator of Paradon, and require his presence at all command meeting just irked him. 

So when his comm line pinged, Sandstorm had no qualms what-so-ever about toning out Ultra Magnus, Lieutenant Arcee, Prowl should have been there too, but he’d commed at the start of the meeting to let them know he’d been temporarily detained, and Sureshot, the semi-official leader of everyone returning to the planet who hadn’t joined a faction. Jazz was absent, as he had been since he’d returned to Cybertron. 

.:What’s up?:. He didn’t really care who was comming, almost anything was better than just sitting though this meeting. How knew, maybe he’d get an excuse to leave early.

.:Thank Prrimus, Holy Prrimus,:. Sideswipe gasped back. .:Jou need to help me, Sandstorrm!:. The Kaonnite exclaimed.

.:What’s wrong?:.

.:Suntrreakerr’s trrying to extinguish me!:.

.: Oh.:. Sandstorm slouched in his seat. The twins seemed to always be going after each other for no real reason. The triple changer grumbled to himself, there was no way he was going to be able to skip out on this meeting.

.: Oh!? Jou need to help me! Ee can’t keep rrunning frrom him all sol!:.

Well, at least he could distract himself. .:Go lock yourself in Itineroec.:. He advised, referring to the ship the twins, Springer and he’d used to get back to Cybertron.

.:Arre jou trrying to kill me to? Ee’d have to drrive!:. Sideswipe sounded like he was attempting to out run a speeder with how loud his venting was over the comm.

.:So? Almost no bot has ever died from transforming.:. 

.:He es fasterr zan me and he has zha ship’s code too!:.

Sandstorm narrowed his orange optics. .:Too true.:. Hum… where else could the gladiator hide from his brother most-likely justified wrath? .: Oh, where are you?:. That was a good thing to know for sure.

.:En zhat building jou have meetings in. Gah! Let go Sunstrreakerr!:.

Oh hey! If they were in Autobot HQ and given their low security access, they couldn’t be too far from- .:Sideswipe just go hide in my quarter, you can’t be too far away--never mind, Sunny’s got the code for that place too.:. Wow, he couldn’t think of anyplace one of them could get to without the other knowing how to too.

.:Sorry dude, but you’re on your own ‘till this meeting gets out.:. As much as he wished he could just leave the room and join in the case happening a few floors above and over.

Sideswipe didn’t reply. Figuring he’d have to find the red and black mech later and rescue him from what every embarrassing situation his golden brother’d put him in, Sandstorm grudgingly returned his attention to the talking bots and femme before him.

 

“Sir?” A sturdy red and white Cybertronian stepped into a small, dimly lit room, filled mostly with shelves of data pads and memory cubes. The mech he was looking for sat at a desk, bent over an energon synthesizer with a tiny light as he tinkered about with the internal workings.

“What is it?” The blue and white flier looked up from whatever it was he was doing, which was probably re-calibrating the finicky machine to minimize wasted elements.

“Um, that mnemo mech is here again. He’s got another frame for recycling.” The flier stood, turning off his work light as the smaller mech moved aside so he could see the scrawny orange and gray Cybertronian waiting next to one of the unpadded berths in the other, larger, room. “He’s wondering if he can take the cerebral processors.” 

“No, he can’t.” The taller mech walked out of his work room, the light shutting off as soon as he was out. “But I’ll take care of him this time. You go prep the siphoning equipment, the warmer the energon is, the easier it is to retrieve.”

“Yes sir.” The red and white mech turned toward a darker corner of the poorly lit room.

“Also,” the flier through back over his wing as he neared the deathly still orange mech and guttered frame, “find that dilidadaling apprentice of mine. He should’ve been back awhile ago and he really must familiarise himself with this whole procedure!” 

“Yes sir.” The other repeated. But he wasn’t heard, the mech he’d addressed was already explaining to the slender mech who’d brought in the newly extinguished frame exactly why he couldn’t have the cerebral processors yet. He was used to it though.

“Don’t worry,” he muttered to himself, “I’ll make sure everything's ready,” after all, they couldn’t return to Cybertron without energon, and the flier couldn’t syphon it without his two helpers. 

“It’ll all be ready Pharma.”

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, I'm not sure where to start... I'd better start with...
> 
> Thank you to the wonderful users who are letting me use their OCs for this and the up coming chapter of Neos Mnesitis!   
> Causeway (c) LadyElita-Arts   
> Stormbreaker (c) Emilly2  
> Scarlet (c) CristalShiva  
> Endgame (c) QueensRansom  
> Crystalline the Pink Racer (c) CryztalStar  
> Flashpoint (c) Jazzninja545  
> Snow (c) BerryBreezer  
> Domina (c) toledo108
> 
> \---these wonderful people can all be found on DeviantArt.com---
> 
> Canary, Molotov, Margarita and Infernal are all my OCs 
> 
>  
> 
> If any of you fine people have any last notes you want to add about you character, please do so soon, as I will not start posting the next chapter until most of it is written. 
> 
> If anyone see's any type-o's please do point them out to me! Or if you have any writing tips are feed back for me.
> 
>  
> 
> XENIA: The Greek term for the Laws of Hospitality. The custom in classical Greece and other ancient cultures that, if a traveler comes to a strange town, he can ask for food, shelter, and gifts to help him on his journey. (web.cn.edu/kwheeler/lit_terms_…)
> 
> Caleuche: A mythical ghost ship.


End file.
